Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Isabella,” Beatrice warned, though she couldn’t suppress a smile at her sister’s frankness.
“Lady Isabella,” Leo greeted, amusement evident in his tone. “Still terrorizing eligible bachelors, I see.”
“Someone must educate them,” Isabella replied airily. “They come out of university thinking they know everything, when they’ve barely scratched the surface.”
Lady Pennington cackled with delight. “Oh, I do like this one. She reminds me of myself at her age. Terrified half the ton with my opinions.”
“Only half?” Isabella asked innocently.
“The other half was too dense to realize they should be terrified,” Lady Pennington replied. “Men, mostly.”
Leo raised his hands in mock surrender. “I know when I’m outnumbered.”
Beatrice took another sip of champagne, a strange buzzing beginning at the base of her skull. The room seemed suddenly warmer, the voices around her blurring into indistinct noise. She blinked, trying to focus on Isabella’s banter, but the words slipped away like water through cupped hands.
“Beatrice?” Leo’s voice seemed very distant. “Are you well?”
She tried to respond, but her tongue felt strangely thick. The glass tilted in her hand, champagne sloshing perilously close to the rim. Leo took it from her, setting it aside with smooth efficiency that belied the concern in his eyes.
“Just a bit warm,” she managed, though the words came out slurred.
A chill raced through her despite her claim, gooseflesh rising all over her arms. The room began to spin alarmingly.
Leo’s arm was around her waist instantly, steady and strong. “Perhaps some air,” he said.
The words were directed at Lady Pennington, but his attention was entirely on Beatrice.
Lady Pennington’s face swam in and out of focus as Beatrice nodded. “Yes, air. That would be—”
Her knees buckled.
Isabella’s face paled with shock. “Bea!” she gasped.
Leo caught Beatrice, his grip tightening as he pulled her against his chest. Through the growing fog, Beatrice registered the hush falling over the nearby guests, the quick, smooth way Leo moved through the crowd toward a side door.
“Leo—” She clutched at his lapels, her fingers clumsy and uncooperative. “Something’s wrong.”
“I know, darling.” His voice was calm but tight with controlled fear. “Hold on. I’ve got you.”
He shouldered through a door into a quieter room—a study, she thought dimly, registering leather-bound books and the scent of tobacco. He lowered her onto a settee, kneeling beside her.
“Beatrice.” He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. “Look at me. Stay awake.”
She tried, fighting against the heaviness of her eyelids. His face blurred and doubled before her, the room spinning in lazy circles.
“So cold,” she whispered, her teeth beginning to chatter. “Why is it so cold?”
Leo shrugged out of his evening coat and draped it over her. He pressed his hand against her forehead, then her cheek, checking for fever. “You’re burning up.”
He turned, barking orders at someone she couldn’t see. “Send for Dr. Morris immediately. And bring water—cold, with ice if available.”
“Leo—” Beatrice reached for him, relieved when his warm hand closed around her frigid fingers. “The champagne. I think—”
“Don’t speak.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his expression grim. “I know. Just stay with me, darling. Stay awake.”
Beatrice fought against the darkness edging her vision, focusing on Leo’s face, the feel of his hand around hers. Voices came and went—Georgina’s concerned questions, a servant bringing water, the Duke of Windermere offering his assistance.
Isabella appeared. “Tell me how to help.”
“Fetch Father,” Beatrice managed, though the words felt like stones in her mouth. “And Christine.”
“They’ve already been sent for,” Isabella assured her, taking her other hand. Her fingers were cool against Beatrice’s burning skin. “Just hold on.”
Time stretched and compressed in strange ways.
Had minutes passed, or hours? Beatrice couldn’t tell. The only constant was Leo, his thumb drawing rhythmic circles on her wrist, his voice steady in her ear.
“Stay with me,” he repeated. “Just a little longer. The doctor’s coming. Stay with me, Beatrice.”
She tried, God how she tried. But the darkness was so tempting, the cold so penetrating. Her eyes fluttered shut despite Leo’s increasingly urgent pleas.
The last thing she heard was his voice, cracking with an emotion she had never heard from him before.
“Don’t leave me, Beatrice. Please. I can’t lose you.”
Leo paced the length of Windermere’s study, every muscle in his body strung taut with fear. Beatrice lay pale and still on the settee, her breathing shallow, her skin burning beneath his touch. Dr. Morris bent over her, his expression grave as he examined her.
“Well?” Leo demanded when the physician finally straightened. “What is it?”
Dr. Morris adjusted his spectacles, his weathered face grim. “Poison, almost certainly. The symptoms are consistent with belladonna, though thankfully, a relatively small dose.”
The word ‘poison’ rang in Leo’s ears. He had suspected—known, really, from the moment she swayed—but hearing the doctor say it out loud sent ice through his veins.
“Can you treat it?” He fought to keep his voice steady.
“I’ve administered an emetic and charcoal to absorb what remains,” the doctor replied. “But the Duchess must be immediately moved somewhere she can be properly monitored. Her condition is… precarious.”
Leo nodded, a decision made in an instant. “My carriage is waiting. We’ll take her to our townhouse.”
“I’ll come with you,” Dr. Morris said, already packing his medical bag. “She’ll need constant attention through the night.”
Windermere appeared at Leo’s elbow, his expression grave. “I’ve cleared the servants’ entrance. You can avoid the main hall and any… unwanted attention.”
“Thank you.” Leo clasped the man’s shoulder briefly. “And the servants who served the champagne?”
“Being questioned by my steward as we speak.” Windermere’s voice dropped. “This was no accident, was it?”
“No.” Leo’s jaw tightened. “I have my suspicions.”
“Westbury,” Windermere guessed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Leo didn’t confirm or deny it, but his silence was answer enough.
He turned back to Beatrice, gathering her slight form in his arms. She felt fragile—impossibly so—her head lolling against his shoulder, her skin hot through the thin silk of her gown.
“Let’s go,” he ordered, already moving toward the door.
The Duchess of Windermere intercepted them, her face pale with concern. “I’ll call on you tomorrow,” she promised, squeezing his arm. “Anything you need—anything at all—send word immediately.”
Isabella stood beside her, tears streaming down her face. “Take care of her,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Swear it.”
“On my life,” Leo vowed, the words heavy with meaning.
The journey home passed in a blur of anxiety. Leo cradled Beatrice in his lap, counting each shallow breath, murmuring constant reassurance, though he wasn’t certain she could hear him. Dr. Morris sat opposite them, pressing his fingers to her wrist at regular intervals, his face revealing nothing.
Servants rushed to meet them when the carriage halted before the townhouse, Peters directing footmen with uncharacteristic urgency.
“Your Grace’s chambers have been prepared,” the butler announced as Leo carried Beatrice inside. “Fresh linens, water—everything Dr. Morris requested.”
Leo nodded, taking the stairs two at a time despite his burden. In his bedchamber, he laid Beatrice gently on the bed, reluctant to release her even as the maids hurried to remove her evening clothes and replace them with a light nightgown.
“Your Grace,” Dr. Morris said quietly, “you should wait outside while we—”
“I’m staying.” Leo’s tone left no room for argument. He moved to the window, giving the maids space to work while maintaining his vigil.
Rain had begun to fall, droplets streaking the windowpanes like tears. London stretched beyond, oblivious to the fear squeezing his heart. Somewhere out there, Westbury lurked—calculating, watching, waiting.
This was a warning, Leo knew. A demonstration of how easily the man could reach them, even in the heart of Society.
And Leo had failed to stop it.
Behind him, Dr. Morris directed the maids in a hushed tone. Cool compresses for the fever. Sips of water mixed with medicine when she could be roused enough to swallow. Clean linens as the poison left her system.
When the physician finally approached him, Leo steeled himself for the worst.
“She’s young and strong,” Dr. Morris said, answering the question Leo couldn’t voice. “The dose wasn’t fatal. With proper care, she should recover.”
“Should?”
The older man sighed. “These next hours are critical. The fever must be managed, and fluids must be maintained. Watch for changes in her breathing, or any sign the poison is affecting her heart.”
Leo nodded, memorizing each instruction. “And you’ll stay?”
“Of course.” Dr. Morris squeezed his shoulder. “I’ve sent for my assistant; I need more medicine. We’ll see her through this, Your Grace.”
The maids withdrew, leaving only Leo, Dr. Morris, and Beatrice’s lady’s maid Emilia, who insisted on staying despite her red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands.
“You should rest, Your Grace,” Dr. Morris suggested as midnight approached. “There’s little to be done now but wait.”
“I’m not leaving her.” Leo pulled a chair to Beatrice’s bedside, taking her limp hand in his own. Her skin still burned. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.
The physician didn’t argue, merely nodded and retreated to a chair in the corner, prepared to intervene if needed.
Leo sat as the night deepened, holding Beatrice’s hand as if he could tether her to this world through sheer force of will.
In the flickering candlelight, she looked impossibly young, impossibly vulnerable. Her dark hair was fanned across the pillow, damp with sweat at her temples. Her cheeks, usually so quick to flush with emotion, were pale except for two spots of a feverish red high on her cheekbones.
“You’re the strongest person I know,” Leo whispered, pressing her knuckles to his lips. “Fight this, Beatrice. Come back to me.”
She didn’t respond, lost in whatever fever dreams had claimed her. Leo brushed damp curls from her forehead, his touch gentle as he replaced the cool cloth that had warmed against her skin.
How had she become so essential to him in such a short time?
This woman who had entered his life under the most unlikely of circumstances, who had seen past his carefully constructed defenses to the wounded man beneath.
Who had shown him that warmth could exist beyond the ice his father had forced upon him.
And now she lay poisoned because of him. Because he had failed to protect her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “This is my fault. I should have been more vigilant. Should have anticipated—” He broke off as his throat constricted.
He bent his head, pressing his forehead to their joined hands, fighting for composure.
Dr. Morris tactfully looked away, pretending to consult his medical bag.
The hours crawled by. Leo bathed Beatrice’s face with cool water, coaxed medicine between her lips when the physician instructed, and changed the linens when sweat soaked through them.
He worked mechanically, pushing aside his fear to focus on each task. If he concentrated on the practical needs of the moment, he could almost forget the terror lurking beneath.
Almost.
Dawn approached, pale light seeping around the edges of the curtains. Beatrice’s breathing had slowed somewhat, though her fever still raged. Dr. Morris dozed in his chair, exhaustion finally claiming him.
Leo sat unmoving, his body aching from maintaining the same position for hours, his eyes gritty with unshed tears and lack of sleep. He watched the faint rise and fall of Beatrice’s chest, counting each breath as if it might be her last.
Ice baths had been his father’s method of discipline. A way to force strength, to punish weakness, to forge the perfect duke from a boy who felt too much. Leo had endured them until they became a ritual, until the cold became so familiar that he thought himself immune to its bite.
But this—watching Beatrice suffer, powerless to ease her pain—was a new kind of ice. It froze him from the inside out, turned his blood to slush in his veins, crystallized around his heart until each beat felt like shattered glass.
“I’ve spent my life avoiding this,” he confessed to her unconscious form. “This… vulnerability. This fear of losing someone who matters. My father would call it a weakness.”
And now, he feared… he feared that the blasted man had been right all along.
His thumb brushed across her knuckles, the steady motion almost meditative. Her fingers twitched in his grasp.
Leo froze, hardly daring to hope. Her eyelids fluttered, though they didn’t open.
“Leo,” she murmured, the word barely audible. “Cold…”
“I’m here.” He leaned closer, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I’m right here, darling.”
Her eyes opened briefly, unfocused and fever-bright, before closing again. But she had spoken. She had recognized him. It had to be a good sign.
Dr. Morris stirred in his chair, roused by their voices. He crossed to the bed, then felt Beatrice’s pulse and checked her temperature with the back of his hand.
“The fever’s breaking,” he announced, relief evident in his weathered features. “She’s turning the corner, Your Grace.”
Leo exhaled, a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “She’ll recover?”
“I believe so, yes. The worst has passed.” The physician squeezed his shoulder. “You should rest now. I’ll stay with her.”
“No.” Leo shook his head. “I want to be here when she wakes.”
The doctor studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “As you wish.”
Leo settled back in his chair, Beatrice’s hand still clasped in his. The first genuine hope in hours unfurled in his chest, tentative but growing.
His wife would live. She would recover. And when she did, Westbury would pay for every moment of fear, every hour of suffering he had caused. Not just for attempting to harm Beatrice, but for the threat to Philip and Anna, and the disruption to all their lives.
This ended now. No more waiting, no more defensive measures. As soon as Beatrice was well enough, Leo would take the fight directly to Westbury, employing every resource at his disposal to bring him to justice.
Outside, dawn broke fully over London, washing the room in golden light. Leo closed his burning eyes briefly, allowing himself a moment of pure relief. Through the window, a bird began to sing, its notes clear and sweet in the early morning stillness.
And at that moment, Leo made a difficult decision.